


Bad

by TheEmcee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEmcee/pseuds/TheEmcee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before heading back to 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock meets up with his brother to see how John has been holding up since his death. What he’s told is more than a ‘bit not good’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad

Title: Bad

Author: The Emcee

Rating: K

Pairing: Johnlock

Summary: Before heading back to 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock meets up with his brother to see how John has been holding up since his death. What he’s told is more than a ‘bit not good’. 

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: I just wanted to write a really short story, so here it is. R&R. Enjoy!

…  
Bad  
…

 

“How bad was it?” Sherlock didn’t even bother looking at Mycroft. He kept his gaze focused on the dark world outside of the window. Blue eyes stared into the shadows and saw nothing, nothing but John.

“It’s not as bad now as it was, but it was bad, Sherlock. Very bad.” Sherlock swallowed and fought to quell the emotions raging inside of him. Within a few hours, he’d be back home at 221 B Baker Street, back with Mrs. Hudson, back with John. Before he could go back, he had to know, had to know, what he had left behind. Oh, Mycroft had told him about Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but John was left for last. He would be the most difficult to talk about, to tell Sherlock about, but he needed to know. Yes, Sherlock had a few guesses on how John had been these past few years, but he needed to hear it. Mycroft, for all of his faults, wouldn’t lie to him, not when John was concerned anyway. That was the only redeeming quality about his brother.

“Tell me, Mycroft. All of it.” Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh from behind him, but he made no move to turn and look at him or to return his gaze to the world before him. His thoughts stared into the past and the possible future he might have with John.

“He stopped eating for a number of weeks. John kept himself hydrated of course, but when I inquired as to why he refused to eat, he simply told me that he couldn’t. He physically couldn’t eat; he would get sick and throw it up. As you know, John hates getting sick, so he solved that problem. It wasn’t until he collapsed that he was forced to resume again, but even then it was only small portions.” Sherlock nodded, letting Mycroft know that he had heard him, and his brother continued.

“He didn’t cry for a long time. Oh no, I think that part of him slipped into some sort of psychotic state. It remained that way for months before Greg told him that you were dead and never coming back. That was when the tears came.” Greg Lestrade. He had managed to worm his way into Mycroft’s heart. Sherlock couldn’t say that he minded the man though. John always seemed to like him, and even though he couldn’t do his job right to save his life, Lestrade was still a decent person. Not anywhere near as wonderful as John, but still someone Sherlock had given three years of his life for. That had to count for something.

“Nightmares plagued him. They were bad at first.” Sherlock’s vision came into focus and he stared at Mycroft’s reflection in the glass.

“How bad?” His older brother didn’t break eye contact, his expression grim and troublesome.

“Bad. Especially the first year.” Sherlock closed his eyes and he felt a wetness prickle them. Tears. He had never been one to cry easily, but here of late, anything that had to do with John sent his emotions in an upheaval. 

“Tell me. Please.” He could practically hear Mycroft’s surprise, but his brother didn’t call him on it. For once, Mycroft was being pleasant enough that Sherlock wasn’t annoyed by him. 

“The nightmares affected him badly enough that he’d forego sleep just to find some bit of relief. Work became…difficult at times and his body would just pass out from exhaustion. After that first year, they became less…severe. He still woke screaming, calling out for you, but they wouldn’t plague him every single night.” Sherlock sighed heavily. 

“He still works at the clinic?” Sherlock’s voice was thick with emotion, emotion he couldn’t hide from Mycroft and didn’t have the strength to cover up.

“Yes. John, surprisingly, managed to reign in his emotions while at work and with patients. When his shift ended though, he’d take that mask off and become a shell of a man. He tried to hide it well. It didn’t work.” Sherlock felt the tears shine in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let the fall. He had to be strong, if not for himself then for John. After all, John had been strong for him ever since they met, even during the three years while Sherlock had been ‘dead’, now it was time for Sherlock to be the strong one. John needed him to be the strong one.

“He visited your grave.” Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath.

“How often?” He heard Mycroft sit down on a chair. Sherlock was well aware that this had been difficult on Mycroft, even though it was all his doing, which was why part of Sherlock didn’t care if his brother couldn’t sleep at night some times. After everything his brother put him through, put John through, the man deserved quite a few sleepless nights.

“Every day. Early in the morning, late at night, during the day; it never mattered, he was always there. Before work or after. John wouldn’t go one day without passing by. He’d stay there for a few minutes or a few hours, depending on if he had work right afterward or not. Even when he was too sick to be moving about, he’d go. It’d get to the point that he’d be dead on his feet and his sister would have to stop by to help him out. During her last visit when he was sick, he told her he’d been out late at night when it was raining and that was how he got ill. Harry figured out that it was when he was out visiting your grave.” Sherlock felt his heart clench up. That stupid, stupid, loveable, amazing, wonderful man of his. Risking his own well being just to be close to Sherlock. 

“They had a yelling match. Harry told him it wasn’t healthy to be visiting your grave every single day, especially at odd intervals. John told Harry that she was just a drunkard who didn’t have the ability to function in a healthy relationship and argued she had no idea what he was going through.” Sherlock’s bright blue eyes turned and met Mycroft’s. The man gave him a reassuring look.

“They’ve patched things up, but John keeps her at arm’s length, just like before. He continued visiting your grave every day, but at the same time. Eventually, it turned to every other day. I’d like to say it was narrowed down to once a week, but it wasn’t.” Sherlock turned back and stared down at the world below. He watched the people walk by, not knowing the quiet tragedy that plagued his life and John’s life, not caring about anything in the world. 

“Has he…has he been with…with anyone?” Sherlock knew the answer, but he had to hear it from someone else, out loud. 

“No. People have been interested, but none of them were you and John isn’t the type of man to lead others on if he’s not interested. Even broken, he still cares about the feelings of others.” Sherlock nodded and stepped away from the glass. He knew that he looked frightful, but he didn’t care about that. All he cared about right now was John. His John. 

“How’s the flat?” Mycroft’s gaze was soft, full of guilt and understanding. It made Sherlock want to punch him. How dare the man believe he understood what he put Sherlock and John through? 

“The same as always. He even left your room the way it was. All he does it clean for dust and whatnot.” Sherlock nodded and pulled his coat closer to his body.

“Thank you, Mycroft. You’ve been most helpful. But I must be off now.” Sherlock started heading towards the door, his steps filled with determination and purpose. 

“Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t hit you, Sherlock.” He paused, his fingers touching the door knob lightly.

“From what I’ve gathered, I believe that John would be more happy that you’re alive than angry that you left. Not saying that there won’t be unresolved issues and a good right hook later on, but for now, I think all he wants is to have you back. He still believes in you, Sherlock.” 

Closing let his brother’s words sink into his skin. Closing his eyes, he took another deep breath, gathering the courage and strength he’d need when he finally, finally, saw John. He knew it’d be intense and emotional, but they both needed each other in order to be whole. They both needed one another to live and be alive. Neither one of them could live, be truly alive, without the other. And Sherlock loved John too much to stay away. In the end, Sherlock was just selfish and stubborn, refusing to give up the man he had done so much for, who had done so much for him.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock opened the door and finally made his way back to 221 B Baker Street, and back to John.


End file.
